


Burns in the Presence

by fannishliss



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: sammessiah, M/M, Samulet, sammy is the demon messiah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:31:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss





	Burns in the Presence

**title: Burns in the Presence**  
author: [](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/profile)[**fannishliss**](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/)  
3700 words  
Antichristmas fic gift for [](http://delanach.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://delanach.livejournal.com/)**delanach**  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
rating/warnings: PG (brothers kissing!)  
Spoilers: basically the whole history of the amulet, plus general s8

For the 2013 Antichristmas Fic Gift exchange on [](http://sammessiah.livejournal.com/profile)[**sammessiah**](http://sammessiah.livejournal.com/) : [](http://delanach.livejournal.com/profile)[**delanach**](http://delanach.livejournal.com/) wanted: "Amulet fic. Something from any time frame that focuses on the amulet and what it means to the boys. Could be Sam’s way of claiming Dean, or keeping tabs on him, or proof of who Dean belongs to."

Thanks to Elliemurasaki for her recent [meta/picspam on Jess at AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/761986), to which I am indebted.  :)  


===   
THE ROAD SO FAR  
=six vignettes=

=i=  
Sam thought it had to be the worst Christmas ever.  Not that he could ever remember anything much good about Christmas.  A good Christmas for the Winchesters was when Dad was around and bought them each a Swanson's turkey dinner.  

This time there was not even that much.  There was no reason for Sam to expect Dad to make it home. Dad didn't keep those kinds of promises.  It burned Sam more than usual though, because he'd gone to the trouble of getting Dad a present, or, at least, he'd asked Bobby to give him something he thought Dad would like.  

Sam thought Dad would have liked it.  Sam himself liked it a lot.  It was a heavy brass pendant on a soft leather cord, a man’s head with horns and what was maybe a beard, or maybe just a really big chin. Sam liked the serene look on the horned man's face.  He liked the half-closed eyes and the jaunty curve of his horns.  Most of all he liked the heavy weight of it, and the way it felt warm when he held it in his palm.  It would have been a great present for Dad, if Dad had bothered to show up for it.  

Sam didn't mind giving the pendant to Dean instead.  In fact, it felt right, in a way that giving the pendant to Dad hadn't quite.  It was Sam's secret mark on Dean, proclaiming between just the two of them their secret pact as brothers. Sam imagined the man’s brass horns facing off against anyone or anything that might bother Dean; he imagined the man’s calm expression conveying to Dean that he would never be alone, that he and Sam were in it together. It was like, from now on, Sam could look at Dean, and a visible sign of his love hung there, cast in brass, tangible, eternal, and close to Dean's heart.

=ii=  
“Good shot, Sam,” Dad pronounced.  “Clean, quick, just like I taught you.  You rest up with your brother a little bit, and I’ll go get the shovels.”

A half-formed thought floated through Sam’s head, a mental image of Dad hitting the whiskey as he went for the shovels, but it was shaky.  Sam needed to sit down.  He needed to find a safe place to put his gun – the big one with the pearl grip Dad said he’d grow into, loaded on this night with silver bullets Sam had helped melt down and load.

More than anything, Sam didn’t want to grow into a gun.

He felt himself sinking and didn’t know why.

Then he felt Dean’s hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, Sammy – you okay?” Dean asked.

“Uh...” Sam said, but found he couldn’t reply.  He couldn’t look away from her body—the dead naked body of a woman, a woman who’d never move again, never close her staring eyes.  He’d shot a monster, and a woman lay dead with Sam's bullet in her heart.  Dad had been so proud.  Dean had actually cheered.  A woman lay dead.

“Hey, Sam, it’s all right, it’ll be all right.  You saved a lot of people today.  She didn’t know, Sam – now she’ll never know – and that’s a good thing.  You saved her, too, you know?  I’m proud of you.”

Sam couldn’t answer.  The pain in his throat choked off any possible reply.  The hot tears of shame and guilt burned his face on the way down.

“It’s okay, Sammy, I got you, I got you,” Dean crooned, dropping down to sit beside him in the leafy dirt and pulling him in for a close hug.  They didn’t hug like this, not much anymore.

The pointy horns of the amulet dug into Sam’s cheek as he buried his face in his brother’s familiar chest, the only safe place left in the whole world, Sam thought.

The amulet burned hot against his cheek and Sam caught control of his sobbing breath, calmed himself, and just savored the hug: Dean’s loving hands, soothing his back; Dean’s sweet tenor, hushing him, saying his name, saying, “It’s all right, it’s all right.”

Dad got back after a while, and then they all dug. It didn’t have to be too deep – two or three feet – so they were soon done.  Sam tried to shut himself away as they dragged the woman’s naked body and dropped it into the shallow grave. He turned away as Dad salted the body and blessed it with a little holy water, and then Dean drenched it with lighter fluid and dropped a lit pack of matches on top.

Sam backed away from the blaze, not wanting to breathe in the acrid smoke.

“You’re a Hunter now, Sam,” Dad said, as they trudged back to the car after filling in the grave.

Sam just wanted to be a regular kid, Dean’s little brother, nothing more.

=iii=  
Dean was so mad.  Sam hadn't really… he hadn't really let himself consider, that Dean would be so angry, so furious at him.  Sam couldn't stand that look in Dean's eyes, the hurt, the betrayal.  It went so deep, it looked almost like scorn.

Dean had found the letter.  Of course he had.  Dean and Sam took turns with the laundry; they knew each other's gear; they hauled all of each other's crap in and out of motel rooms.  There was nowhere Sam could stow a letter that Dean wouldn't find it.  It wasn't like the Impala had secret compartments known only to Sam. Dean knew everything -- that was the number one truth of Sam's world --everything except for this.  Dean refused to know about Sam's desire to get out of Hunting.  Dean had dropped out of high school; as far as Sam remembered, he'd never even breathed the word college.  All Dean had ever cared about was lore, and skills, and backing up Dad, and of course, Sam acknowledged, taking care of him.

But Sam didn't want Dean to take care of him -- not forever.  He'd grown up, hadn't he? Wasn't that every kid's journey-- grow up, make their own place in the world?  Leave the nest?

But that look in Dean's eyes, Sam had never expected.  Dean knew it too, glancing the look off of Sam, in passing … staying out late at bars and sleeping in, coming in with a girl in his arms, driving her home, it burned so hard in Sam, and he didn't even know why.  Dean wouldn't look at him except with that hateful disappointed scorn.

Sam took Dean for granted, he got that.   He knew his brother was always looking out for him -- a solid fact of life. He remembered Dean stepping up his game after what had happened in Fitchburg, what Sam had thought dimly at the time must've been a nightmare; he remembered Dean's hyper-vigilance after Flagstaff, when Sam had run off on a lark without really thinking it through. Dean had always been there, tucking Sam in, rousting him out of bed in the mornings, training or playing around, watching tv with the sound down low while Sam tried to get ahead with homework.  Always, Sam had been Dean's first priority -- more important than schoolwork, obviously, but also more important than girls, and even, more important than Hunting.  John sometimes needed Dean, and when he did, Dean went no matter what Sam said, but Dean always gave Sam the sense that he went out of duty, like a soldier-- and when he came back to Sam, the frown of a soldier's duty turned to joy.

Sam would watch Dean go, and last thing on the way out the door, Dean would waggle the little amulet at him, as if to say, "protection charm, right?" or "be right back, Sammy."

And it was always true.  That amulet never left Dean's neck, because Sam had put it there.  Sam wanted Dean safe, just as much as the reverse was true.

It wasn't much comfort, but it was the only one left.    Now this letter divided them.  Dean hardly ever spoke to Sam now or looked at him more than in passing, that terrible, hurt, blaming look.   But he still wore the amulet, always.  Sam pinned his hopes there, that as long as Dean kept that amulet, things could still be made right between them.

Sam wouldn't see Dean again for four long years, Dad's "stay gone" ringing in his ears.  Sometimes though, his hand still burned with that last touch: early dawn light, two duffels full of every worldly good waiting by the door, laying his hand on Dean, sleeping in his softest black Zeppelin t shirt, the amulet hot, almost burning between them, Dean's eyes opening, filling with hurt and accusation, but lifting his own hand, just once, to press Sam's hard against his heart.  The horns left little dents in Sam's palm that he traced over and over, long after they'd faded and the bus was crossing the Rockies.

=iv=  
Jess was an Art major.  She always had little flecks of paint on her clothes or under her fingernails.  Sam loved it when she was stained with red or green and it wasn't blood or ichor, nothing more sinister than paint.

Sam like helping Jess study for her art history exams, showing her paintings and listening to her describe them by era, painter, theme.  He learned along with her, though his majors, good for prelaw, were Philosophy and Religion.  The course that rang deepest with him was the Studies in Folk Art she took spring of their Junior year.  Sam's eyes picked out the hoodoo, the hexes, the wardings, the secret symbols women and men had scratched and painted and woven into their loved ones' belongings for eons.  Sam wondered if Jess had ever noticed those scratchings around their own windows and doors.

The section on Caribbean folk art knocked him back a little.  He'd never been able to get a solid lead on Dean's horned amulet -- though it did bear strong resemblance to the bull men of Sumer, which meant, it was really, really old.  But in Puerto Rico the horned masks chased away demons.  Demons-- they'd never gone up against demons, but the idea shook something inside Sam, made him feel angry and ready to fight. He crossed himself -- Jess was Catholic and he went with her to church sometimes, trying his best in his heart to believe, or at least not to disbelieve.

But the cross he made felt empty.  There was only one amulet he really trusted, the one he'd given Dean, the one he hadn't seen in so many years, the one he longed to feel again, burning hot between them.

=v=  
Whatever Dean might have thought, Sam hadn't ever let himself get out of shape.  He ran every day, lifted twice a week, soccer on the weekends.  He'd even found a dojo where he kept up his hand to hand.  So it was no surprise to Sam when he took the intruder down.

It was a surprise though when Dean's green eyes stared up at him, cocksure and shuttered, the amulet almost burning him where it was stabbing him in the sternum.

He didn't want to move, he didn't want to get off of Dean, he just wanted to lie there, feeling that strong familiar body, his brother, that he missed so deeply, for so long.  He could almost have cried, except for Dean's eyes -- pissing him off with that empty look.  Happiness -- anger -- and naked keening want tore through him at the sight of his brother -- why were Dean's eyes so empty?

That emptiness only made sense later, when he realized how Dean and Dad had been watching him all those years.  Dean had walled Sam off, putting Sam behind plate glass, hadn't let himself call, hadn't let himself yearn.  He'd tried to cauterize the wound, let Sam be his own man.  Sam guessed he should feel grateful.  But he didn't. He'd wanted Dean to miss him like he missed Dean, like he was missing a limb or some vital organ, part of his own brain or body, part of his own soul, the closest two brothers could be.

=vi=  
Then Sam died, and Dean brought him back. Sometimes, later, Sam would wonder: just how deep did the manipulations go, the way their lives were orchestrated by Heaven and Hell?  Dean had gotten the idea to sell his soul from Dad of course, and Dad's trade had been set up by Azazel himself -- Lucifer's number one fan. Sending a demon to wreck the Impala, getting Dad's soul, putting Sam into the tournament, prompting Dean to sell his own soul, leaving Sam with nothing but the desire to get Dean back no matter what the cost -- every little piece led inexorably to the Apocalypse -- all the way back to the Angel breeding program, a Cupid's arrows, a maverick Campbell daughter and a fatherless Winchester boy.

Where was the free will in any of it?

Then Castiel wanted the amulet, and Dean gave it to him.

Sam had felt the amulet burn, so he kept quiet.  Maybe Cas would succeed.

But he didn't, and then Dean dropped the amulet in the trash.

So much had changed between them.  But Sam didn't want to let go.  He still loved Dean more than anything, and even after everything they'd lost, he was still willing to fight.  He'd figure it out for the both of them.

 

 

 

 

====  
NOW  
====

Dean was in his room.  The door was ajar.  Sam knocked.

"Dean, hey," Sam said.

Dean was looking at a magazine, but whatever it was (Sam didn't care to know) he tossed it aside.

"Hey, Sammy," he answered.

Sam shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.

"There's something I wanna, um," Sam started.

"God, no, Sam," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "Don't you get it by now? These speeches are bad luck."

"They can't be that bad luck, or we wouldn't both still be here," Sam retorted.

"It's been a long road, that's for sure," Dean said.  "Okay, Sam, whatever -- get it off your chest."

"Yeah," Sam said.  "Yeah, I will."

Easy as that he reached behind his head, grabbed the deerskin thong, and pulled it out, tossed it onto Dean's bed.

"Just wanted, you know, just thought, you might want it," Sam said.

Dean was gobsmacked. "Where did you… hey! How long have you had this?"

"Since you dropped it in the trash," Sam retorted, not without bitterness.

"You don't know …" Dean said softly, poking the amulet with one finger, "how much I wished I had that back when you were gone."   He looked up at Sam, his green eyes suspiciously bright.

"Yeah, well," Sam said.  "I probably should have told Bobby, asked him to give it back to you, but, it was all kinds of hectic there."

"It was," Dean agreed.  "It surely was."

"Go on," Sam said.

Dean lifted the amulet up and slipped it over his head.

"Shit," he said, as it landed on his chest with a thump.  "It's like… It feels like -- always."   Dean grinned all of a sudden, and Sam grinned back, and then they laughed a little.

"Is it hot?" Sam asked suddenly.

"What?" Dean asked.

Sam scoffed.  "It's not a hard question, Dean.  Is the amulet hot?"

"Why?" Dean said.  "You think God is in the room?"

"One thing about Cas," Sam said, "whatever, but he's one lying Angel. Lies like a rug."

Dean's eyebrows shot skyward.

"You think Cas lied about the amulet finding God?"

"Did he find God?" Sam asked rhetorically.

Dean's eyes rolled as Sam spread his empty hands.

"So -- is it hot?" Sam asked.

"I don't know -- like I said, it feels like it always did," Dean said, uncomfortably.

"Like it always did, Dean? or only sometimes," Sam accused.

"… sometimes," Dean admitted.

"Like now," Sam said.

"… yeah," Dean allowed.

"Hot," Sam said.

Dean nodded.  Sam sat down next to him on the bed, kicked his shoes off, folded his legs crosswise.

"May I?" Sam said, lifting his hand.

"Whatever," Dean said, but he made no move as Sam laid his big hand across the amulet, finding, as he knew he would, the amulet burning hot under his palm.

"It doesn't burn in the presence of God, Dean," Sam said.

Dean just stared back at him, round-eyed.

"It burns --"  Sam prompted.

" -- when we --" Dean tried, but he couldn't say it.

Sam caught Dean's gaze.  "One time you said we were each other's weakness -- but you gotta get by now that's not true.  The amulet burns when we're together -- really together -- as brothers, whatever -- it burns when we're as one, like, united."

"United?" Dean asked in a whisper.

"Let me tell you something," Sam whispered back. "Have you ever figured out what this amulet represents?"  Sam patted the amulet against Dean's chest, and let his hand rest there.

Dean shook his head.

"It's most likely a Sumerian bull-man.  I figure it's at least five thousand years old."

"Holy crap," Dean gasped.

"Do you know what the bull man did?" Sam asked Dean.

"No," Dean said.

"He guarded the gates," Sam answered.

"No shit," Dean breathed.

"He himself was a demon, but he held back the forces of chaos," Sam said.

"Why are you telling me all this?" Dean asked.

"Don't you feel it burn?" Sam asked, pressing a little harder against Dean's chest.  The amulet was hot, but not in a bad way.

"It doesn't hurt," Dean said.

"It's not meant to hurt," Sam answered.

Dean swallowed.  "What are we talking about, Sam?"

"Being one.  Making this amulet burn.  Guarding the gate," Sam answered.

Dean looked at Sam like he was the whole world.  He licked his lips.

"Did it burn when you were wearing it?" Dean whispered.

"No," Sam said. "It was cold, ice cold."

They didn't say the name of Lucifer, but both of them were thinking about his absolute coldness.

"Why does it burn when I wear it?"  Dean asked.

"Because I'm the gate -- and you're the guardian."

"I don't like it, Sammy," Dean said, his brow drawing together.

"We got to, Dean.  Close the gates.  Save the world.  And this time, it's gotta be together."

"Together," Dean said.

Sam leaned forward just until his lips brushed Dean's, a chaste promise that they wouldn't let anything divide them ever again.

The last trial was like a blur to Sam.  Somehow, they succeeding in saving a demon.  And now, the gates yawned in the ground beneath them.

Dean turned panicky eyes toward Sam, but he stood fast between his brother and the Pit.

"I gotta do this Dean -- I'm meant to be the gate--" Sam said.

"There's no way I'm letting you do this alone," Dean yelled over the roar of the abyss.

Sam nodded and grabbed onto Dean's hand.  "Together!" he said.

"Butch and Sundance," Dean shouted.

"Out in a blaze of glory!" Sam sang and Dean grinned, desperate, gripping each other's hands. And somehow, they found the will to jump.

Sam felt himself hit the floor and heard Dean hit beside him.

"What the hell?" said Dean.

"I don't think so," said Sam, looking around at the piles of books, clothing, and scattered empty bottles.

"Hey guys," said Chuck Shurley.  "Um, good work, there, with the sealing, and all."

Dean and Sam scrambled to their feet, glaring down at the bathrobed Chuck.  They were in his squalid little dark dingy house.

"What are we doing here?" Sam asked.

"It's a halfway point.  I thought it would be, you know, familiar, put you at ease, that sort of thing."

"I swear to God," Dean began, but Chuck cut him off.

"Yes," he nodded, with a pleasant smile, "yes, you do."

Dean paled.  "You're kidding."

"I often do," Chuck grinned, "but not this time.  Just tell me -- what do you want?"

"We want the gates of Hell sealed," Sam quickly rattled off, "with us safely not in Hell, preferably alive, preferably back at the bunker in the regular, normal world, except with a lot fewer monsters."

"I can do that," Chuck said.

"Hey," Dean interjected.  "Is this like a three wishes scenario?"

"No," said Chuck.

Dean looked disappointed.  "It was worth a try."

"I don't give three wishes.  I'm not a genie and you didn't let me out of a bottle.  Though, there are a lot of bottles around this avatar," he added.  "You just tell me what you want the most, and then I, in my infinite wisdom, fix you up."

Sam darted a glance at Dean.  "I want us to be brothers, family -- close -- " Sam said.

"Together," Dean said.  "If that's all right."

Chuck gave him the fisheye.  "What do you think free will is for, anyway?  You decide what's all right."

"Yeah," Dean said, uncomfortably.  " 'Course."

"We get that," Sam said hastily.  "We can make our own decisions."

"Course you can," said Chuck. "And now, the gate is sealed.  Certain repenting demons and wrongly imprisoned souls have been freed, but no soul shall cross again, forever and ever."

Sam and Dean nodded.  "Thanks," Sam said, politely.

"Hey," Dean said, all of a sudden.  "Where's my amulet?"  His chest was bare again.

"Something had to be the gate, something sacrificial and burning with love.  It worked," Chuck said with a shrug.  "Good seeing you guys! Take care now!"

Sam and Dean blinked as they found themselves back at the bunker.

"Wow," Dean said.

"Wow," Sam agreed.

"So it's over," Dean said.

"Looks like?" Sam answered.

"And we're not in hotter water than we were before, this time?"

"I don't think so?"

"And did Chuck -- really -- give us his blessing?"

"Yes?"

Sam laid his hand on Dean's chest --no amulet -- but that was all right, in the end.

He leaned in and felt Dean's soft lips under his -- Dean's strong arms and body, still so familiar after all of these years.  He knew Dean better, loved him more, than anyone, ever.  He'd never dared dream this was something he could have.

"We did it, Sam," Dean muttered.  "I can't believe, we did it, we made it, we're here -- we're both here!"

"Shut up, Dean," Sam said, kissing him, and so Dean did.


End file.
